


Stars

by Aqualina_Sky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Gen, Mostly a lot of feels, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, fuck marvel, kinda hopeful ending?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 19:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16540586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aqualina_Sky/pseuds/Aqualina_Sky
Summary: Based on a post a saw on Tumblr "Then I starting thinking about what state of mind Cap would have had to be in to CLAW THE FUCKING STAR OFF of his uniform, and then I had to go sit quietly by myself for a few minutes"





	Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Very sad. Lots of feels. Steve Rogers refuses to take care of himself.

Steve would constantly maintain that he was fine. Sure, the only person he had ever truly loved beyond a shadow of doubt had been tortured for seventy years and was now back on ice and all of the friends he had made in this new era either hated him or were on the run with him and the only reason he wasn’t being hunted down by members of 177 different countries was because of one man’s extreme generosity, but he was fine. Sam and Nat weren’t believing his shit, but were kind enough not to point it out yet. 

Steve kinda couldn’t believe that it had been three weeks since Bucky had gone back on ice, with everything passing in a sort of haze. He refused to acknowledge that the only time he actually felt alert and aware was when he was hitting something or someone. Finally though, they had gotten the call that a Hydra base had been discovered. Steve knew immediately that he was going to destroy it. He wouldn’t ask his friends to go with him, but he was going. When the news came though, all Nat and Sam had to ask was when they were leaving. 

For the first time since he arrived at Wakanda, Steve put on his uniform. T’Challa had had it cleaned and repaired for him, something more Steve had added to try and find someway to repay the king for. 

Without his shield, Steve fought using his body as a blunt instrument. Instead of bullets and knives bouncing off of his shield, he took them to his arms, his shoulders, his torso, ignoring the pain and discomfort and he ripped apart equipment and killed and disabled people until there was nothing left to do but blow it up. They did just that before getting back on the Quinjet. 

Steve just happened to glance sideways at the window as they passed, and caught sight of himself, blood splattered across the white of the star on his chest. He couldn’t quite figure out why that made him feel so out of sorts, but he brushed it off as they got situated and took off. 

The feeling didn’t go away though. If anything, it got worse. All of a sudden, he bolted up. He had to get out of the uniform right fucking now. He moved to the back, out of the way, completely overlooking the fact that he can’t reach the fastenings because they’re up his back. 

He’s vaguely aware of the fact that he can’t breathe, but it’s distant and fuzzy like everything else these days. At some point as he tried to reach the fastenings open, his body had tried to start getting air and he had started clawing at the star on his chest, eyes blurred with tears as he struggled with it. Steve was only distantly aware of the way his fingernail beds had started bleeding as the nails pulled away from the beds and the star slowly came off it rips and tears. 

Suddenly, Sam is there, a hand on his back, pulling his hands away from his chest carefully. 

“Steve. Steve, buddy, you gotta breathe. Can you do that for me? Can you take a deep breath for me?” 

Steve can just stare at Sam with wide panicked eyes, thinking distantly that asthma sure was a bitch before Sam caught hold of Steve’s hands and pressed them to his (Sam’s) chest, taking deep exaggerated breaths. 

“Breath with me bud. Breath with me.” 

Slowly, Steve does, muscle memory from his years with asthma taking over from the position. 

“There ya go, Steve. Now keep breathing, I’m going to get this off of you, okay?” 

Steve nods, slow and unsure, but Sam just slips behind him to get the top off of him, letting it drop to the floor, then bending to strip him out of his pants and helping him shimmy into a pair of soft sweatpants they had on the Quinjet for exactly this reason. Well, minus the panic attack. 

“Okay, Steve. We’re gonna come lay on this cot, alright? You’re gonna come lay with me.” 

Though it’s phrased gently, it’s an order. Orders are something Steve could handle in his current state of mind. Sam sits on the end of the cot, back against the wall, and Steve lays down, his head pillowed on Sam’s legs as the younger man slowly cards fingers through his hair, helping him calm down. 

Steve doesn’t think he sleeps, but he does float off. Distantly, he’s aware of Sam and Nat changing places, and Nat’s voice singing a soft Russian lullaby to him, but he’s not actively participating in anything. 

Finally, he whispers, “Nat, I don’t think I’m fine anymore.” 

She whispers, “I know, мой волчка́. I know.” 

Steve nods, though he doesn’t understand what she called him. “I think I need help.” 

“I think you need help too. You should talk to someone when he get back to Wakanda.” 

He nods again. He doesn’t know if he actually will, but it’s a nice thought. Without noticing, he finally drifts into a real sleep.


End file.
